I am America, and I have lost my soul.
I hid it under this bushel for safekeeping,
but when evil sucked dry and despair rose, I went back to find it;
and there was a gaping hole where a soul should be.
***
I am America, and I hid my best treasure
while investing in trinkets and bangles and flat-screen fiction,
ignoring the gaunt hungry by the side of the road,
supposing that anyone capable of making such a lovely sign
was surely capable of holding down a job.
At least, that’s what I’m thinking in my stinking rich car
with my skinny latté and my skinny jeans.
***
I am America, and I need a hero to find my soul.
I hid it under this bushel for safekeeping,
but when a wet horror-cry echoed and I remembered its worth,
in that dearth I knew perhaps I was lost.
For…
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